Of Organs and Therapy
by stinkysox
Summary: For Catrice Coulson, being Phil Coulson's daughter wasn't always easy. Now, being the superhero team's, Avengers, live in therapist, it wasn't going to be any easier. Especially when she has a grudge over one of the world's best superheros. Steve/OC.
1. Chapter One

Of Therapy and Organs

A heart is an organ.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Maybe it was years of medical school that taught me that. Or maybe it was the personal experiences. But all I knew was that the heart could not feel emotion. The brain, sure. But the brain isn't always the best thing to believe. I mean look at all the mental illnesses that affect people's judgments and all the times that brains have been manipulated to believe certain people's beliefs.

Why should I have something tell me what I feel when it might not even be true? I mean, look at love. You may think someone loves you, and that you love them, but then they do something that obviously meant that they never did.

A heart is a stupid thing to symbolize love. It pumps blood through the body, nothing more. It's actually pretty gross if you look at the real thing.

Who am I kidding? I'm probably the worst person to talk about love in the world. I mean -

"Catrice Coulson?"

I winced at the sound of my name through the nasally voice of the secretary. Standing up, I grabbed my and purse, shoving my phone into the opening.

Goddamn. I really needed to clean that out. I'm pretty sure that the only reason I got this phone was because I lost the other one in the depths of my purse. It's like a black hole, once something goes in, nothing comes out.

Walking swiftly, I approached the desk and the secretary with what sounded like bad allergies.

"Catrice Coulson?" She asked again, snapping a piece of gum afterward. I nearly rolled my eyes. This lady was ridiculous. Between her fake nails and tan, I didn't know if putting her out in the sun would make her sweat or melt.

"That's me," I answered with a forced smile, placing my hands on the desk that went to around my chest. The woman handed me a form to sign, and then pointed to an elevator at the end of a hallway.

"Third floor, second door on your right." After she finished she went back to clacking on her keyboard (how the hell does she type with those fingernails?). I was about to make my way to the elevator, but I stopped to ask the question that's been burning in my mind since I got here.

"Um, excuse me? But do you know why I've been called here?" I asked, giving a small smile.

"Sorry, hon, but I don't. Guess you'll just have to see, huh?" She asked in an all too cheerful way. I nodded slowly and backed the hell out of there as quickly as I could.

I shook my head and let a quick breath out while padding down to the elevator. It was a weird building, mostly gray and black, with not that many windows. Not to mention the bird symbol that was thrown around everywhere.

On the way to the elevator I noticed a few people, a few years younger than me, all with bluetooths and holding armfuls of coffee. I shuddered. Interns. Not that I didn't like them or anything. I was an intern in a firm once, and it was _terrible. _If you've ever been one you can feel my pain.

Between contemplating interns and bird symbols, I hadn't noticed that someone was headed straight towards me. Well, I did but it was too late.

"Oh fuck!" I cursed as I fell towards the ground. Then suddenly, my prince charming rushed forward and grabbed me before I hit the ground, staring into my eyes as he lifted me up.

Just kidding.

I hit the ground. Hard.

"Shit," I groaned, immediately grabbing the side of my head to feel for a lump.

"Are you alright?" Someone asked beside me. "Oh God, ma'am, I am so sorry." A hand was outstretched to pull me up, but I waved it off, hoisting myself up. "Are you alright?" After standing and steadying myself, I looked over to the person who had knocked me on my ass. Literally.

He was attractive, I'll give you that; muscles (very visible, might I add), a good jaw, and a head of neat blond hair. His personality definitely didn't match his looks.

"Probably no concussion," I laughed, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, and giving a small grin. The man furrowed his brows.

"Um. I'm joking," I reassured, raising a brow. Goddammit, Catrice, you can't use humor like this in public. Get out of this situation, _now._

"Are you sure you're fine?" He asked again, worry filling his eyes.

"I'm fine," I laughed. "But if I'm not I'll have my lawyers contact you." Holy shit. I did _not _just say that. The man's eyes widened. "Fuck. Again, I'm joking. I'm – I'm just going to go now." I gave a small wave and hurried to the elevator at the end of the hall.

I fought the urge to mutter to myself right there. Of all the situations I've been in, I had to choose _now, _with an attractive man and medical injuries to use my humor.

After mentally beating myself up and getting into the elevator, I began my trip up to the fifth floor.

.xxX

After three wrong doors, I had finally found the correct door (more like I had asked for help and someone escorted me there). After the escort had opened the door, the room was revealed to be a plain, gray square. It honestly looked like a prison cell.

There was a gray (big surprise) table in the middle, with chairs on either side. The escort motioned for me to sit down, closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, two men walked in; one in a black trench coat (and an... eye patch?), and another in a plain black suit.

"Ms. Coulson," The man in the trench coat greeted with a nod of the head. The other man walked to me without a word, grabbing my purse from the table.

"Hey!" I protested, sitting up and trying to snatch it back.

"It's protocol, Coulson." The man in the eye patch sat down again, setting a manilla folder in front of him. The man continued to fish through my things in my purse, pausing when he pulled out a half eaten snickers bar at the bottom of the bag. He raised an eyebrow.

"Holy shit, _that's _where it went!" I exclaimed, giving a small smile. The man continued to give a questioning look. "I... get hungry." I shrugged and he continued to fish through.

Great way to make a first impression.

"So you're probably wondering who I am," The man said, folding his hands in front of him on the table. I huffed and tried to resist saying 'No shit.' I had been given an address and told to come as soon as possible. Of course I was wondering why.

"I'm Director Nick Fury."

I nearly rolled my eyes. "And?" I asked, raising a brow, mimicking the man going through my bag. Goddammit, no! Catrice, too much sass.

Fury rolled his eyes – er, eye – and continued.

"I am the director of SHIELD." He paused, waiting for my reaction. SHIELD. Why did I recognize that name? "Ring a bell?"

I shrugged. "I'm trying to make a connection," I said, clicking my tongue. After a few seconds I shook my head. "I recognize it. But I don't know from where."

Fury unfolded his arms and sighed. "We employed your father."

My eyes widened. My father. My dad.

"I'm sorry, you employed my father?" I asked, sitting more upright and placing my hands on the table.

"We do. Did. Until the incident," He said, shrugging. The man going through my purse finished and left the room, leaving me alone with the director.

"Tell me what happened to my father," I demanded, gritting my teeth. Come on, Catrice. Keep your cool. You've helped people with this. You should be able to keep your calm.

But at the same time, this was my _father. _

"We will. Once you help us with something, we'll give you information on your father."

I frowned. "What could you want from _me_?" I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

Fury chose to ignore my question, and stood up to pace the room. Each way was only a few paces considering the length of the room. "You live in New York, is that right?"

I nodded. "The outskirts, yes."

"Where were you during the third week of May last year?" He asked, which made me raise a brow.

"I believe I was in Hawaii," I answered, shrugging. "My dad sent me there for a vacation, said I was stressed and needed a break." Fury seemed to think it over again before stopping in front of the table, leaning his palms into it.

"Are you aware of what happened during that week in New York?" He asked.

I shrugged. "Isn't that when the big alien attack happened?" Fury scoffed.

"It was. Are you so aware of what else happened besides the alien attack? Specifically what countered the attack?" He asked, raising a brow.

I snorted. "Wasn't it superheroes or something?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

"What, you don't believe it?"

I shrugged. "Honestly, superheroes aren't my forte."

"And why is that?"

"I'd rather not say," I answered, turning my head the other way and crossing my arms in front of my chest.

"Then you do know of superheroes?" Fury questioned, stopping in front of the table and crossing his arms.

"I know of one."

"And that is?"

"Captain America," I rolled my eyes once more, trying not to sneer. Fury chuckled.

"I take it you don't like him then."

I looked down and bit the side of my cheek in anger. "Let's just say I'm not too fond."

.xxX

"So, Ms. Coulson, you are how old?" Fury asked, steering away from the previous subject. I was happy to oblige.

"Twenty eight."

Fury nodded. "No family?" I shook my head.

"Not besides my father and I. But considering that I don't know _where he is, _there might not be any family." I brushed away that thought in my mind.

"We'll get to that," Fury said, picking up the manilla folder on the desk. He read a few lines of the paper and then set it down in front of me. "You have no romantic partners?"

I paused and ran my tongue over my teeth. "I did. But not anymore," I answered calmly, or so I hoped.

"Something happen, Ms. Coulson?" He asked.

"Again, I'd prefer not to talk about it."

Fury chuckled. "You're a lot like your father." After reading another few lines, he continued. "So, Ms. Coulson, you're a licensed therapist, correct?" I nodded. "And where did you study?"

"Harvard."

"High marks, I see. And you've finished your residency?" He asked.

"I did; a year early."

"Great. Ms. Coulson, we'd like to offer you a job with SHIELD," Fury said blankly.

I widened my eyes. "I'm sorry, a job?!" I asked.

"We need a live in therapist here. You'd be provided with a room and all of your expenses would be payed for," he explained, gesturing with his hand.

"What makes you think that I would just drop everything and come and work for SHIELD?" I asked, scoffing.

"Please, Ms. Coulson. I know for a fact that you work for a small firm and you don't get paid as much as you should. You'd be much better off here, and far happier I would think."

"Oh _please._"

Fury rolled his eye and said one last thing. "We'll give you information about your father. That's the only way."

.xxX

"Sign here, here, and here." I quickly scribbled where the agent showed me to, handed back the pen, and continued following Director Fury.

"Now who am I working with?" I asked, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

"You'll see, Ms. Coulson. You're going to meet right now, actually." We walked through a door into a huge meeting room, complete with monitors, TVs, and papers littered around. In the middle was a long, glossy table with office chairs surrounding it. Various people were standing around in conversation with each other. "Ahem," Fury coughed, and everyone turned to face him.

"Ah. Cyclops, nice to see you again," a man with black hair and a goatee, wearing an ACDC shirt, smirked, walking towards the director. "Who is this?" He asked, pointing towards me.

"This is Catrice Coulson," Fury introduced, nodding his head.

"Coulson?" Another person in the room asked, a man with short light brown hair, who was standing next to a short red haired woman.

Fury nodded. "She's Coulson's daughter."

"Does she know?" The same man asked, but soon after the woman next to him slapped him in the stomach, hard.

"She doesn't."

"Know what?!" I asked, crossing my arms.

"I told you. We're going to get to that," Fury gestured to the man with the goatee. "This is Tony Stark." The man grinned and waited for me to recognize him.

I stuck out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand, which was limp.

"Oh my god..." Tony started. "You don't know who I am." I shook my head.

"Should I?"

Tony scoffed. "Ever heard of Stark Industries?" I blinked and shook my head.

"Not everyone knows who you are, Stark," the red headed woman said from the other end of the table.

"Please," Tony said, rolling his eyes, and then eyed me up and down. "Fury, why did you bring her in? She certainly doesn't _look_ like a superhero. I mean, she does look good, but certainly not an Avenger."

"I'm sorry," I turned to Fury and raised a brow. "Superhero?"

"Holy shit," Tony exclaimed. "Does she know what SHIELD is?" Fury shook his head.

"Ms. Couslon, welcome to SHIELD. We created the Avengers: a team of superheroes," Fury explained, gesturing the rest of the people in the room.

My jaw dropped. "I thought I told you I don't like superheroes," I ground out, clenching my jaw afterward.

Fuck. Did I really just say that in front of _superheroes_?! They could beat me to a pulp.

"Well, I find that offensive," Tony said, crossing his arms. "And how is she going to work with us?! I'll say this again, she doesn't look like a superhero."

I scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?!" I asked.

Tony rolled his eyes. "Seriously? When was the last time you did physical activity?" He asked. My eyes widened at his rudeness.

"The last time it was required of me," I answered calmly, with confidence. "So senior year of high school."

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm not an athlete. I'm thin, just not fit. I _don't _have a completely flat stomach and I _don't _have muscly legs and I definitely _don't _look like a superhero. But considering I'm at a healthy weight and my pants fit, I could honestly care less.

But even though I wasn't the fittest, that was no excuse for someone to point it out.

"Well excuse me."

"Ms. Coulson, actually, _Dr._ Coulson, is being brought in as a live in therapist," Fury explained.

"A therapist? Seriously?" Tony asked. "She doesn't look a day over twenty five. How is someone supposed to be a therapist when they haven't even had enough experience to be one?"

I rolled my eyes. "For your information, Mr. Stark, I'm twenty eight. And I've had enough experience to know... let's see," I started, looking him up and down.

"Checking me out sweetheart?"

"In your dreams." I folded my arms and began. "I know that you have post traumatic stress disorder, undiagnosed by a real doctor, considering that your hand is jittering, obviously from nerves, most likely because you've never met me before." I pointed down to his hand, which was tapping against a chair absentmindedly. He stopped after I acknowledged it.

"Another reason is that you have a gun strapped to your ankle," I pointed now to his jeans, which had the top and side outline of a gun.

"It's required by all SHIELD agents," Tony said.

"Ah, yes. But it's probably not required to keep an extra case of bullets in your pockets," I gestured to his pockets, where you could clearly see a box, obviously heavy, considering it was weighing down his pockets. He kept quiet this time. "You also are probably trying to treat it with music therapy," I gestured to his ACDC shirt, "but that wouldn't work because hard rock isn't the most soothing, is it? You're also trying to treat it with alcohol, due to your bloodshot eyes you probably drink your sorrows away. But drinking is never the answer; is it Mr. Stark?" I smirked. "I think you try to convince people that you're a lot more well off than you really are. And that's why you need me."

Tony stood there, scowling, before the man with the short brown hair piped up. "I, quite frankly, like her. We should keep her," he said, grinning and laughing.

"I agree. No one has the courage to tell off Stark," the red headed woman laughed, and they walked up. Two other men walked up as well.

"I'm Bruce Banner," one man introduced. He looked nice enough, and had been wearing a purple shirt and glasses, which he folded and slipped into his pocket. "I'm known as the Hulk, and you'll most likely be seeing me in quite a few sessions. I have a, let's say, _diagnosed _condition." He pointed to the next man, who was, in lack of a better term, huge. He had blonde, chin length hair and had huge muscles. "That's Thor, he's literally a God, which we'll have to explain to you later. That's Natasha Romanoff, she's a trained assassin, also known as the Black Widow." He pointed to the woman with the red hair, and then to the man with brown hair next to her. "And that's her partner, Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye, also a trained assassin. And of course you already know Tony, who is known as Iron Man." Tony was still scowling, but the rest said hello, before Bruce turned to Fury.

"We're only missing Rogers," he said, "but I do think that you should tell Dr. Coulson about her father before we go on. I think you owe it to her."

I automatically decided that I liked Bruce. He was going to be a great friend. And once I make a decision, I never change it.

"I do believe you do, Director Fury," I said, turning to him. He sighed and set his jaw.

"I guess I do," he answered, "you might want to sit down."

"I'm fine standing, thanks," I answered, raising my eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

"I guess that there's no easy way to say this, but your father worked for us, as you already know. He was also one of our best agents," Fury started.

"That's great! I'll be working with him, finally. I haven't seen him since Hawaii," I grinned.

"But I'm sorry to say, Ms. Coulson, that your father is dead."

Both my jaw and my bag dropped to the floor simultaneously. "What?" I asked, my shaking hand came up to my mouth.

"Great way to deliver news, Fury," Tony said sarcastically, crossing his arms.

"Stark, I will fucking murder you," Natasha hissed, glaring at him.

"Please tell me you're joking," I whispered, my eyes welling up.

No. You're not going to cry. You're not going to show that you're weak. You know what happened the last time you showed that you were weak.

"I wish I were," Fury stated, crossing his arms.

"I'm so sorry," Natasha comforted, staying her distance from me.

I stood there, breathing heavily. My father was dead. Dead. No longer living. I would never see him again.

Stop it. Don't cry. You're not weak. You've helped people like this. You can do it. You'll be fine.

But my dad.

Suddenly the door opened, and someone walked in. "Sorry I'm late," a masculine voice apologized. I turned and saw the same man I had _literally _ran into at the elevator.

"Not a good time, Cap," Tony said, as the man walked near us. "This is Coulson's daughter. She just received the news." I wasn't looking at him directly, but I could see that it had dropped out of the corner of my eye. My eyes were still watering, as I fought to keep the tears from falling.

"Catrice, this is Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America," Bruce introduced, putting a hand on my shoulder. My mouth dropped once more and my shaking hand moved from my mouth to pointing at Steve.

"_You,_" I hissed. His brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak. "_You're _the one that killed my father!"

** .xxX**

** Well, I hate to leave you all with a cliff hanger like this! ;) Guess we'll just have to see what will happen!**

** I'm aware some of you came from my other stories, so I hope you'll like this! **

** I do this on my other stories as well, so we'll do this on this one too!**

** Question of the chapter: If you were going to work at SHIELD, besides being a superhero, what would you be? Tell me!**

** Love it? Hate it? Just want to say hi? Leave a review!**


	2. Chapter Two

**Hello guys! Ready for chapter two? You know I am! I apologize for the wait, but I have another story going on currently, and when that's finished I'll be happy to devote the time to this story that it needs. **

**Review responses!**

** Mycatsaninja47: Hey girl! Glad you're on board for the story! Thanks!**

** Postsoon: Thanks lovely! **

** Lorrianeyo11: I most definitely will! Thank you!**

** Time-and-relative-dimension: I would love to be an intern supervisor! Order them to make coffee! ;) Thank you!**

** MegStark123: Thank you girl! You'll make a fab CIA agent someday! **

** CupKatyCakes: I'm glad! Thank you!**

** Britt: Thank you so much! Sorry for the wait!**

** The Rain on Your Parade: Thank you! Working with weapons would be pretty cool! **

** Ym4yum1: Thank you thank you! I don't like Coulson is dead stories either... **

** Onwards!**

Of Organs and Therapy

Chapter Two

One thing I constantly told my patients was to not let whatever they were suffering with label them. Having an illness is hard enough, but having people label you with it doesn't make it easier.

To relate to my patients, the first year of medical school I started a list. The list contained every word that I had been called in that year period. I still keep it going month to month, and I had over sixty lists all together, and a master list on my computer. It was actually a really interesting experiment, even if some of the words weren't the most pleasant things to be called.

Over the past five years since medical school started I had gotten called sweet twenty eight times. Smart ninety eight times; a life saver eleven times; pretty seventy three times. One of my favorites was totally crazy but in a good way, which surprisingly happened eight times. I had gotten called a dork over forty times; tough twenty one times; a trooper ten times. Mixed in there I had gotten called a bitch one hundred and nine times; an asshole sixty three times; ugly forty six times, and an idiot over three times. There was over one hundred and fifty different words that people had described me with in the past five years.

But that was the thing; I wasn't any of those things. I wasn't ugly or pretty, nor was I smart or an idiot. I was a human being, and you can't classify that. That's why with all my patients I told them to never pay attention to the people who treated you like the disease you had. Labels didn't help anyone. Would they treat you differently if your disease wasn't diagnosed? If no one knew about it? No. Of course not. But right as someone finds out, it turns a switch in someone's brain that told them to act differently.

People can be completely different when you meet them as opposed to a few years later. Right as someone hears a label, everything changes.

.xxX

"So I'm guessing you already heard about my little predicament," Bruce huffed, twiddling his thumbs as he avoided eye contact. I shrugged.

"Very little." Bruce sighed and removed one of his hands before rubbing his eyes.

"I'm guessing you're going to give me medicine," he said, annoyed, "but I can tell you it's really not going to work. People have tried before and nothing has worked so far."

"I'm not going to try to give you medicine. I'm not even going to try to cure you," I told him, giving a small smile. He raised an eyebrow. It was obvious that he had never had someone not try to cure the Hulk; not try to tame the beast inside of him. "Dr. Banner, I'm not going to try to cure something that's a part of you.

"I've told this to most of my patients with an illness or a disease, or something they didn't like about themselves. My job isn't to just make everything go away, because that would be too simple, wouldn't it? My job is to help you think about what's affecting you, and figure out what is the best for _you._ If that means getting rid of the Hulk, then so be it. But frankly, I think that you would find yourself missing it if it wasn't there." There was a small pause as Bruce sat in thought. "It's really up to you."

One thing that patients always had a hard time grasping was that I was there for them. A lot of the people I see were people who were ignored for most of their lives, or felt like it, and had never had someone asking what _they _wanted.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Coulson, but I probably won't be the easiest patient," he laughed uneasily, sighing afterward. I shook my head and waved my hand.

"I can already tell you're going to be the easiest. That's why I wanted to deal with you first." I stood and motioned to the door. "We can end today early. Just take some time to think of how you're feeling and then we'll take some time and discuss it at your next appointment." With a smile I shook his hand and led him down the long hallway to the entrance of my office. I was on the sixteenth floor of SHIELD, right near the linguistics department and the files, so it was a pretty quiet place.

"Dr. Coulson, if you don't mind me asking, are you okay?" Bruce asked from behind me. I slowed down to walk beside him.

"It's Catrice outside of the office," I told him, pointing to the right as we turned down another part of the hall. "And yes, of course I'm fine." Bruce sighed beside me.

"I mean, the whole thing a few days ago. I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he said.

I shook my head. "It's... it's a hard thing to swallow. But I'll be fine. I am fine currently."

Bruce smiled. "Well, if you ever want to talk about it, my lab is on the third floor. Usually Tony's there, but you can kick him out if you want." I laughed and thanked Bruce before walking the rest of the hall in silence.

Was this possibly going to be a friendship? Una would be proud.

.xxX

The whole incident that Bruce was talking about happened three days before.

"Catrice, this is Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America," Bruce introduced, putting a hand on my shoulder. My mouth dropped once more and my shaking hand moved from my mouth to pointing at Steve.

"_You,_" I hissed. His brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak. "_You're _the one that killed my father!"

The room fell silent. "What? Ma'am, I think you're mistaken-" I answered by turning around and drawing my hands to my temples.

How dare that man come into the room?! _He _was the one who took my father away from me. _He _was the one that made him leave. _He- _he killed him.

_Oh god. Oh, dear god. Daddy was dead._ Gone. Stripped from my life _forever._

I was going to throw up. Honestly, I could puke all over Director Fury's shoes right now. Deep breaths, Catrice. In, out._ Slowly. No crying. No showing your emotion._

"I can't take this job. I can't work with him!" I gritted through my teeth, leaning down to pick up my discarded bag off the ground. "I think you'll have to find someone else. I'm sorry, it's just not going to work." Before I was about to take a step toward the door, one raised hand stopped me.

"Coulson. Where do you think you're going?" Director Fury lowered his hand and stepped in front of me.

"Anywhere from here." I tried to take a step to the side but was blocked by him once again.

"Coulson, you just signed a contract saying that you would work in our agency for a total of up to three years. The only way you're getting out of it is if you come to this building in a body bag," Fury said, crossing his arms. "Now, unless you have an elaborate way of faking your death I don't think you'll be getting out of it any time soon."

Clenching my fists, I stared him down. "I'm sorry, but there has got to be a way out of this because I am _not _going to work with someone who _killed my father_!" I yelled, my voice bouncing off the walls of the silent room. I thrust my pointer finger behind me.

"No."

"Then get out of my damn way." I pushed my way past Fury, adjusting my bag on my shoulder as I walked swiftly down the hallway.

"Coulson." I heard Fury call after me. "Coulson!"

"Nick, give her some time, come on," Bruce said afterward. I drew a shaky breath before climbing down eight flights of stairs as quickly as I could. I needed to get out of here.

_I need to get out of this contract. I _can't _stay here, _I thought, as I exited the SHIELD building. The air was a few degrees warmer, except it was a pretty mild day for weather. Since we were just approaching the fall, people were changing out their shorts for jeans, and some people wore jackets already. I had lived in New York for quite some time, but every time you stepped out of a building it was the same reaction. You were hit with talking, horns, and screeches of cars. It was noisy for some people, but it had gotten to the point where it was calming, even in the dead of night.

I thought about getting a taxi, but right now I couldn't deal with any other people talking to me. I knew where I was going; even though it was a while away, I needed the time to think about what had happened. Stepping onto a busy street, I let my self zone out and slip through the people wordlessly.

_What if I _did_ fake my own death? _I shook my head. _No, you're smart, but not smart enough. Especially with working with... superheroes. Could I get a lawyer? What if I looked up on what my rights are? _I groaned inwardly. _They're a government organization. There's no way I could hire anyone good enough to get past that. _

I walked a few blocks with my thoughts running aimlessly; there were stray thoughts about my father, memories of when I was young and he had been there for everything. Parent teacher meetings, graduations, birthdays... you name it. He had had to leave for business here and there, but I never thought too much about it.

_I guess that's where Daddy went all this time...to work for a job that eventually... killed him. _I swallowed. _And to think that I thought he was a stock broker this whole time. _Loose ends came together in my head.

My father had never really explained what he was doing, but when he did tell me something he would just say he helped people with money. I was never good at math, and didn't fully understand the point of the job, so I never pushed it. But I guess it made sense. In the third grade when parents came to class to tell about their jobs, my father never came.

_"Daddy? Here, I got this today." I handed my father the slip of paper that Ms. Grant had handed to me before the school bell rang and took a seat at our kitchen table. _

_ "Now what is this?" My father asked with a smile, crouching down and gently taking the piece of paper from my hands. He turned it so both he and I could see. I swung my legs underneath my chair as I explained._

_ "It's bring your parent to school day. All of the parents come and tell the class about their jobs!" I explained excitedly, grinning up at my father._

_ "I see." My fathers mouth twitched, before patting his hand on my knee_

_ "So will you come?" I asked, bouncing in my chair. "Please?" _

_"I don't know, honey," he said, looking into my eyes with a wisp of a smile he had before. I frowned and my shoulders slumped. Dad's smile left and he removed his hand from my knee._

_ "Why not?" I asked, pitifully. "Do you not want to come and see me at school?" I looked toward my feet, which stopped swinging._

_ "Oh, no honey, of course I want to see you at school." My father stopped crouching to get on his knees and put his hand on my back. "I would never not want to see you. It's just..." he took a few seconds before continuing. "Isn't Tommy's mom a police officer?" I nodded my head. "And doesn't Jane's dad run the doughnut shop down the street?" _

_ "Yes."_

_ "Well," my father started, his smile returning, "their jobs are so much more interesting than mine! _You _even think my job is boring! So don't you think your classmates would think it's boring too? Being a stock broker isn't that exciting."_

_ "Yes, I guess so."_

_ "And I wouldn't want to bore the class half to death before the other parents come to show what they do! Trust me, you'll have much more fun without me there." _

_ "Okay," I said cheerfully. _Daddy was just looking out for me._ He grinned and stood up._

_ "Well, since I'm not going to be there, why don't we have a father daughter date tonight? We'll order a pizza and watch a couple movies. What do you say?" He asked, reaching for my hand._

_ I grinned and took his hand before jumping out of my seat. "Yes!" I yelled while dragging him toward the living room._

_ I guess I should have seen it. _I thought. _He lied to me all these years about his job and I only find out about it because he died. I thought we had a close relationship, but I guess not..._

My eyes blurred at the thought, but I looked up and blinked back the tears. I can't, no, I _refuse_, to cry. It's not an option.

After a few more minutes of walking I finally got to my destination. _Cafe Shea. _I had been here so many times before, that I had formed a friendship with the owners, Shea and Una, two middle aged Irish immigrants that opened up the cafe when they had gotten to America.

I opened the door, the small bell ringing as it hit it. There were quite a few customers in the cozy cafe, but there was still room at a small table in the corner. I took a seat and took in the familiar surroundings. It was small, no doubt about it, but always busy. Shea and Una were known for their European pastries and coffee. There were old black and white photos of Ireland on the wall, some of the owner's relatives. Shea and Una had a few children, who were all grown up and had children of their own. They accepted anyone into the cafe with open arms and a warm smile.

"Catrice! How are you, lovely?" Una greeted (she still had a very strong accent), walking over to my table with a grin, a bright red apron on her waist, and a pad of paper in her hand.

"I'm doing fine, thanks for asking," I said with a forced smile. Una raised an eyebrow and tapped her notepad with a pen.

"You're not fooling anyone with that, love." She smirked before I waved her off.

"No, really, Una, I'm doing fine."

"What are you looking for today?" she asked quickly, changing the subject. For once I was thankful.

"Just a cup of coffee, thanks." Una left swiftly, going off to get the drink from Shea, who ran the food behind the counter. I was left in my own thoughts, staring down at the table my head leaning on a closed fist. A few minutes later, Una came back with a cup of coffee. After setting it down, she sat across from me in the other chair.

"Now, really, what's bothering you? I know somethings wrong," she said, obviously worried at my behavior. I took a deep breath.

"I- I got a new job." Una grinned.

"That's wonderful! Why is that a problem?" she asked, folding her arms in front of herself on the table.

"I kind of just took it on a split decision. Now I'm on a contract for three years and I have to work with someone I really don't want to and there's no way I can get out of it," I spit out quickly, taking a frustrated breath afterward.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry." She let me zone off for a minute before she spoke up again. "You never know. Maybe this job will be a good thing."

I scoffed. "Working with someone that I absolutely hate? Yeah, it'll be the time of my life." Una laughed.

"No, maybe it will help you reach out. Maybe you'll find some new friends. I know you don't have any here, and it'll be good for you to spend some time not working or here," she explained, shrugging her shoulders.

I scoffed again. "I have friends!" Una raised an eyebrow.

"Name them."

"You, Shea..." I trailed off. _Wow. I guess I really don't have as many friends as I thought._

"Honey, we adore you, but Shea and I are hardly friends. We're old geezers that don't even know how to turn on the cable in the house," she said, waving her hand.

"No! No, you guys are great," I told her, "So great." She snorted.

"I never said we weren't great, did I?" she laughed, and I gave a small chuckle. A few seconds later Una became quiet again and look me in my eyes. Her brows were furrowed and she spoke in a low voice. "Now, what else is bothering you, love? I know there's something else. I can see it." I swallowed. She had seen straight through me. "Tell me, love."

I gulped, blinking back tears. My heart had sunk to the bottom of my stomach. "Dad-Daddy's -" I stopped to clear my throat. "Daddy's dead." I bit my lip after I said it, looking at the ceiling so the tears wouldn't fall.

"Oh, oh honey," Una cooed, placing her hand on mine. She let me sit in silence for a few minutes before whispering, "I'm so sorry, love." I pursed my lips and nodded.

"I'm fine. It's okay, thank you," I answered. Una sighed and patted my hand.

"Of course. Of course. I'll leave you be." She stood and gave a sad smile.

"Thank you." As she left I stared down into my coffee, still quite warm. It sat, untouched. I didn't have an appetite. I didn't even want to drink. I didn't even want to accept the current situation, but it had to happen.

_Oh god. I'm going to have to start thinking about what to do... did Daddy want to be cremated? Open casket? Closed casket? What about his will? Oh god... I never thought I would have to think about this. _

I spent the next hour and a half thinking about what to do, hugging the coffee cup with my hands but never taking a sip. I didn't even see the time had passed so much until the setting sun passed through the window and into my eyes, blinding me for a split second. _I guess that was my queue to leave. _

Standing up and grabbing my purse, I walked toward the counter. I rummaged through my bag and grabbed a five dollar bill out of my wallet. "Hey, here you go. Keep the change," I slid the bill to Shea, who was standing behind the cash register. He shook his head and handed it back.

"No, no. It's on us." I raised a brow.

"Are- are you sure?" Shea smiled.

"Of course, you're our favorite customer!" he exclaimed, his accent thick. I shook my head.

"Shea..." I started to object, but was rejected quickly by the bill and a Styrofoam box being placed in my hands.

"Listen, you can pay next time. But this time it's on me, alright? Here's something for later, make sure you eat." He patted my hands with a small smile. "Take care of your self, Catrice. You hear me?" I smiled softly and nodded.

"Of course."

"And we'll see you soon, love!" he called as I turned to the door.

"You know you will!"

I walked quickly and quietly back to the building I had spent possibly my worst day at. The streets were quieting down and the clubbers were starting to come out; some people still coming home from work. The taxis were occupying most of the street and there were even more honks, with the occasional police siren.

As I walked back I let my mind rest. I didn't think, except for when I had to take a turn of dodge someone. Other than that my mind and expressions were blank.

When I had finally gotten back to the SHIELD building, my feet seemed to weight twenty pounds each. I just couldn't seem to want to be in _that _building. No, I know for sure I didn't _want _to be in that building.

It was completely silent, except for the few footsteps that were heard of the receptionist in the lobby. After arriving in the elevator and going up to the eighth floor, I was greeted by, (of course), Director Nick Fury.

"Ms. Coulson. You took a small break?" he asked, raising a brow. _He probably had some sort of childhood trauma, abuse maybe? That could explain the eye patch. And the terrible attitude._

"Yes. I had to think things through. Hearing of the death of a parent isn't... easy," I explained, pulling my bag up my shoulder. Fury scoffed.

"Well, it's something you'll have to deal with quickly. Work starts Monday." And like that, he walked away before I could get another word in.

.xxX

_Exercise for Bruce? I'm sure he gets plenty of it working with SHIELD... Maybe get him to take a break? Relax for a bit? Jobs like this can get stressful... maybe finding a new hobby would be something for the better._

I turned the corner into the staff kitchen on the third floor, tapping my finger against my leg. _I could see about... breathing techniques maybe? _I sighed. _He's probably already tried. Obviously it hasn't worked. Taking one or two deep breaths isn't going to help keep a ten foot tall creature inside of him. _

The kitchen was empty, except for Tony Stark, the man I had gotten into a verbal fight with the first day. _This could get awkward. Get out of here fast. _Opening the fridge and looking around, I snatched a diet soda off the second shelf. After closing the door, I looked at Tony.

He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot not from alcohol, but from the lack of sleep. His hair was messy and it looked like he needed to shave; he was obviously under some stress. I sighed quietly; I knew how he felt. I was up all night unpacking things (Fury had moved me into an apartment in the SHIELD building so I could be close for emergencies, and I couldn't find enough room for all my things) and organizing my schedule with patients, so I knew today would be a long day.

Tony was waiting anxiously by the coffee pot sitting on the counter, and when it stopped he rushed to grab a mug out of the cupboard. Looking over at me and then back to the coffee he was pouring, he said, "Want some?" I shook my head.

"I'm fine, thanks." Tony shrugged and put the coffee pot back, taking a sip of his coffee. He hadn't added anything to it, he must like it strong.

"You one of those people who refuses to drink caffeine?" he asked, setting done the cup.

"No, no." I gestured toward my diet soda. "I was a double major in college. I had so many long nights of studying and drinking coffee that it's effect started to stop working on me. Kind of just have to grin and bare it, now." He chuckled softly, and I joined.

"Double major, huh?" he asked, a small smirk on his face. I couldn't read if he was impressed or not. I had read up on his file earlier, and considering he went to college at the age of fifteen, he probably thought it was pitiful.

I shrugged. "Psychology and psychiatry."

He nodded thoughtfully. _Okay, so maybe he was semi-impressed. _"Double threat. No wonder you can read people so well."

My stomach dropped. Hard feelings over what happened a few days ago.

_Apologize. Right now, Catrice. _

"Listen, Tony. I am so sorry about what happened. Honestly, I let my anger get a hold of me, and I shouldn't have. Really, I apologize," I told him, furrowing my eyebrows. Tony shook his head.

"No, I apologize. I shouldn't have said those things. Makes me seem like a bigger asshole than I actually am." I chuckled as Tony smiled briefly.

"No hard feelings?" I stuck my hand out. He took it and shook it with one motion.

"No hard feelings, Dr. Coulson," he said. I opened my soda and took a quick sip.

"It's Catrice outside of the office," I told him. Leaning against the counter with one hand.

"Catrice," Tony tried. He shook his head. "Nope, don't like it. Cat. How about Cat?" he asked, raising a brow. I furrowed my brows and stared blankly at him.

"Hmm, how about _Catrice_?"

"Nope, nope. Cat doesn't sound right either. How about... Kitty?" he asked again. I was about to object. "Yes. Kitty, that's great. Isn't it, Kitty?" Like I hadn't heard this one before. I rolled my eyes.

We were silent for a few seconds when I tapped the counter. "Well, I have to get back to work. I'll talk to you later." Tony held up his coffee and nodded, as I grabbed my soda and turned toward the door. "Get some sleep first, okay?" Tony chuckled.

"You too, Kitty!"

.xxX

"Natasha," I smiled. "Come in." _Patient two. Let's see how this one goes. She seemed nice enough the first time I met her..._

Natasha nodded, stepping into my office and taking a seat in one of the two armchairs. She had traded in her black cat suit for a pair of casual slacks and a button down. Her eyes still held the same stony blank stare.

"So, Natasha, the first thing I'd like to ask you is how you're feeling about having to come to therapy," I said, folding my hands on my lap. She blinked.

"I think therapy is a waste of time. I think that I've gone this far without it, and I can survive without it from here on," she answered. _Wow, pretty honest. She's going to be hard to crack. _

I shrugged. "Your opinion." I took a second before continuing, "So, I read up on your file." Natasha twitched, she knew what was in there, and it was, I'll admit, pretty bad. So much childhood trauma, it was no shock why she behaved the way she did. "Is there anything specific you would like to talk about?" No answer.

"Okay, then I'll pick the topic? How about..." I took a breath, "the Red Room. Can we talk about that?" Natasha gritted her teeth.

"No." She shook her head, her ginger hair falling from behind her ear. "We're not going to talk about that."

I raised a brow. She was definitely getting angry. "Why is that?" I asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Because!" she shouted. "I'm not going to talk about any of this shit! This is my life and I shouldn't have to talk about this with you!" She screamed in Russian for a few seconds after that, pointing a finger at me. I sat, not hurt by any of the things she was saying. I've dealt with worse.

"I am out of here," she stated, heading toward the door. I sighed, I knew how I was going to have to deal with this. _Tough love. She'll listen to authority. _

"Stop, Natasha. Right now," I demanded, standing. "Listen to me right now. If you don't stay here for the rest of this hour and talk to me, I can tell Fury that you are unfit for this job. You'll be sitting down in a chair doing paper work for SHIELD so fast you won't know what hit you. Now, unless you want to, I would suggest you sit down."

Natasha glared and unclenched her fists, walking back to her chair slowly. She took a seat and crossed her legs and arms, staring at the floor.

"Listen to me, Natasha," I told her, "I've had to deal with people who have been through much less than you and are falling apart. I can tell you're not as tough as you're trying to be." I took a breath as she stared at the same place. "Now, we can skip talking about the Red Room today. Let's move onto something else." Natasha visibly relaxed, her shoulders lowering.

"Let's talk about Clint Barton," I said, as Natasha's brows furrowed.

"What about him?" she asked coldly.

"He's been your partner for eight years is what I read?" She nodded. "So I imagine you two are close. How did it feel during the attack when he was taken captive? Brainwashed by the other side?" I asked. Natasha's eyes flashed with hurt. _I found her way to open up,_ I thought triumphantly.

Natasha stayed silent for a minute. "Natasha, I need you to talk to me."

She huffed and looked up at me. "How do you _think _it felt?!" she asked. "Having the only man I will ever trust fight against me?!" She stared back at her lap and mumbled something.

"What was that?" I asked, leaning forward.

"I said it hurt," she answered quietly. _There is most definitely something going on more than a partnership here. _

"Well, we have a start..." I smiled.

For the rest of the hour we talked about emotions, and if Natasha talked to _anyone_ about how she felt (I wasn't surprised when she said no). After I told her our time was up, she stood quietly, and said she'd see herself out. I let her; I would imagine today was a hard thing for her to deal with.

Standing I made my way over to my (already cluttered) desk, digging out my planner from the side drawer. Snatching a pen, I scribbled into the Tuesday slot _Natasha: one o'clock. _I clicked the pen and held it in my right hand as I flipped to tomorrow section. I clenched the pen tightly and gritted my teeth as I saw my next appointment.

_Steve Rogers: three o'clock._

** .xxX**

** Well, another chapter down! Woo, that was a looong time to wait for an update, I apologize! **

** Question of the chapter: Which Avenger do you think would have the worst issue with therapists? Tell me in a review!**

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